Puff, Puff...

I am jonesing for a fire stick bad these days. I think it's partly to do with the beautiful spring weather. That's right. The weather turns sunny and spring-like and a young girls fancy turns to lighting up a nice cigarette. Aaahh..Can't you just smell the sulphur from the match? Don't you just love that first bit of smoke inhalation?

Last year when I was a regular smoker (how else did I handle PPD?!) I would sit out on my deck after work, wine glass in one hand, and ever present cigarette in the other. I would chat with my neighbors about my heinous job, deadlines, and the need for freedom I had boiling inside me. No one told me that becoming a mother in this post-feminist world could make you feel like a bug trapped under a glass. All this week I look out at the unused deck whistfully thinking of cloves and chardonnay. H is brewing about it too I can tell, minus the chardonnay part.

Then there I was at the gym today reading Erika Schickel's book, 'You're Not the Boss of Me: Adventures of a Modern Mom' while I put some more Avon Walk training miles on my kicks. She has a whole chapter on smoking, fire, and pot. Hmmm... As I treaded along on the mechanical walking device I could not stop smiling about how Mom's do need some sort of vice and always have. I continued to read and found myself dreaming of lighting up a smoke about every 2.5 seconds. Maybe I should find a tobacco store nearby I was thinking. Is there a place around here that sells Splash! cigarettes? As Schickel went on about being a Cheeb head Mom I suddenly noticed something. Wait. Could it be? Do I smell pot? Here at the gym? My gym? My pink and purple palace of women who strive for toned thighs?

Oh yes, I do smell the wacky weed and it's wafting off some sweaty someone right next to me on a treadmill. I inhaled deeply. Huh. I followed that woman all the way to the weights where I continued to breathe it in. Don't mind me, I'm just using the ab machine over here. I'm not sniffing you. I'm no Narc. I swear! I just couldn't fathom it. She's my Mom's age. That is not bergamot or Anise perfume. There's no whiff of a patchouli undertone anywhere. That is just plain old Mary Jane. Sadly, my time was up. No more sniffing out the gym patrons for me today. My saggy, be-diapered butt child was jonesing for something all together different. A diaper change and snack. It was time to head home to stare whistfully out at the deck thinking of a time when I allowed myself to not think of lung cancer and just enjoy the company of friends, wine, and a pack of soldiers. Among other things.